


of peril and peace

by epsiloneridani



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, No established relationship, They're both oblivious, faie is in denial, faie is vos's commander during tcw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24599461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: Faie and Vos crash-land on a Separatist-aligned planet. Coming up with a plan to make it out alive, as it turns out, is the simple part.Blasterfire is easy. Feelings? Feelings are hard.
Relationships: Quinlan Vos/Faie (Star Wars)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 133





	of peril and peace

**Author's Note:**

> I live in rarepair hell.

He’s hasn’t been this cold, wet, and miserable since survival training.

Faie wraps his arms around himself and does his best not to shiver. He’d be warmer if he was in armor, but this deep in hostile territory, his ARC kit would only make him a target. He stowed it safely in his pack and shrugged into the old civilian clothes Vos managed to scrounge up on one of his scouting missions.

Faie makes a face and fidgets with his sleeve. Dry, the material is light and loose, meant to be worn with a wide-brimmed hat beneath a blazing sun. It’s farmers’ garb, two simple garments of inconspicuous tan and brown. He should be able to blend in without issue anywhere on the planet.

If he doesn’t freeze to death first. Even with the bodysuit he’s wearing beneath, he’s still chilled to the bone.

“You okay over there, Commander?”

“Fine,” Faie says icily. His teeth chatter traitorously. Vos cocks his head and stares at him for a second, then turns his gaze back to the expanse below them. They’re on a hill overlooking the city it took them three days to hike to. The sprawling green fields roll gently down toward the high gates. The city is walled in to protect it from any would-be raiders that have made camp in the mountains. The crags cast jagged shadows against the distant horizon. Faie wrinkles his nose.

No matter their differences, the raiders and the city-residents have one thing in common: they hate the Republic.

“They’ll be looking for us,” Vos reminds, unnecessarily, and Faie hates him for the steady way he says it. He’s recently had the sense to start wearing a shirt with sleeves under that dark leather armor, but in the lashing rain, he should be just as cold as Faie is. Maybe it’s another _shabla_ Jedi thing.

As if he doesn’t have enough of those already.

“I know,” Faie shoots back. His own voice cracks. Vos’s gaze snaps to him again.

“You sure you’re okay?” Vos asks. He wrinkles his nose in scrutiny. Something in Faie’s chest jumps and twists when Vos catches his eyes. “You look cold.”

“We’ve been outside in the rain for hours,” Faie shoots back, fighting down the warmth blooming in his chest. “Am I supposed to be warm?”

Vos rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m not that cold,” he says, as if that wasn’t obvious.

“If you hadn’t crashed the shuttle, neither of us would be cold,” Faie points out briskly.

“I didn’t crash it. We got yanked out of hyperspace and shot down,” Vos says easily. “There’s a difference.”

“You could have landed it.”

“I’m a lot of things, Faie, but ace pilot isn’t one of them.”

“Clearly,” Faie says dryly, and shifts to dislodge the stiffness settling in his limbs. “Do you have a plan?”

“Do you?”

Faie stares at him, unblinking. “That’s an air traffic control spire,” he says, and jabs a finger at a tower in the distance. “By my estimation, it’s all the way on the other side of the city. We’ll have a lot of ground to cover before we reach the spaceport.”

Vos makes a disgruntled noise. “We better get moving, then.”

“We’re just going to walk in?”

“You have a better idea, Commander?”

“Keep calling me _commander_ ,” Faie says coolly, “and our cover will be blown before we’re two steps inside the city.”

“Just Faie, then,” Vos says, and holds out a hand to help him to his feet. Faie snorts and shoves it away, pushing himself upright and swatting uselessly at the grass clinging to his pants.

“You remember the cover story if someone stops us?”

“Just visiting?”

“Vos.”

“Quinlan,” Vos correctly smoothly. “And yeah, I got it.”

“Remind me, then.”

Quinlan blows out a long breath. “We’re refugees,” he says, “from the camp I spotted in the north. We’re looking to make our way offworld.”

“And how do I know you?” Faie asks.

“Husband.” There’s a sparkle of mischief in Vos’s eyes, despite the lashing rain.

Faie’s heart stutters. “Vos,” he growls, past the lump in his throat. “This isn’t a game. Save your flirting for a cantina.”

Quinlan’s smile doesn’t falter. “You’re my friend,” he says, and claps Faie on the shoulder. “That’s not that hard to remember.”

“Please take this seriously.”

“I’ve never taken anything more seriously,” Quinlan says. “Have a little faith in me.”

“That’s asking a lot,” Faie mutters, but there’s no bite to his words. For all of his devil-may-care wisecracks, Vos has proven himself more than capable in a warzone. He’s always the first one in and the last one out and he never hesitates to dive into enemy fire to drag a trooper to safety.

Faie stopped counting his heart attacks after their first two engagements under Vos’s leadership and eventually, stopped bringing it up to their general altogether. His protests always fell on uncaring ears, anyway.

Despite the weather, the city’s streets are packed. They pass through what looks like a farmer’s market; the vendors have strapped sturdy tents over their wares and sit huddled behind them. Their caped customers scurry by, scuttling from one shelter to the next in a frenzied flurry. There are law enforcement officers here and there, surveying the throng. Faie sets his jaw. If it was just Vos moving through, it wouldn’t be much of an issue: nothing about him screams _Republic soldier_.

But Faie shares a face with six million other men. If someone here has seen a clone and remembers well enough to recognize him, they’re through: they’ll be mobbed by the swarming mass.

Jedi or no Jedi, Faie doesn’t like those odds.

Quinlan must have had the same idea. His hand wraps around Faie’s bicep. Vos leans in. “Stick close to me and keep your head down,” he says quietly. “Hunch forward. Drop your shoulders. Make yourself small.”

It goes against every instinct Faie’s ever had drilled into him. Stiffly, he curls forward and turns his face away from as many passerby as he can manage, trusting Vos to shoulder a path through the crowd.

Quinlan manages the posture change effortlessly. One minute he’s a proud general, shoulders thrown back and chin lifted, and the next he’s hapless and shuffling, every bit the worn and weary man just trying to get out of the rain. The transition is so seamless it takes Faie a second to register it.

“You look hungry,” one of the vendors calls, waving a bag. “I’ve got fruit. Two coins.”

Vos stumbles to a slow stop. His shoulders, already slumped, seem to sag further. “No,” he says tiredly. “We don’t have any money.”

“But—”

Quinlan’s already moving again. Faie follows his lead, and slowly, they push their way through. The street opens up into a wider plaza; it’s lined with apartments and inns. Each is guarded by an armed officer. They’re scanning their surroundings. One of them jolts suddenly, swiveling, but before Faie has a chance to suggest anything he’s being yanked into an adjacent alleyway.

“Don’t move,” Vos hisses, a hot breath against his ear, and Faie nods mutely. His heart is pounding. Vos is a solid weight behind him, pressed against his back. Faie holds himself completely still until the arm latched across his chest relaxes.

“Quinlan,” Faie says lowly. It’s odd, to call him that out loud – easier than it should be. “Can we go?”

“Hang on,” Quinlan mutters, and Faie waits another long beat.

“Vos.”

“You’re really cold,” Quinlan murmurs. “You’re not gonna drop on me, are you?”

“It’s raining,” Faie reminds tersely, and all at once Vos lets go of him and snaps away. He feels the loss in a rush. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?”

“Yeah.”

Faie raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess,” he says. “The Force told you.”

Something dark flashes in Quinlan’s eyes. “No,” he says shortly. “Follow me.”

Vos leads them through a series of winding back alleys. Faie does his best to keep track of the maze in case he has to find his way back alone. They pass shuddering beings huddled in frozen corners, hunched forward with their arms wrapped around themselves. A few give curious glances from beneath their sodden hoods, a couple hiss and flinch away, but the majority remains motionless.

It’s a silent suffering.

The further they go, the longer the shadows become. The durasteel-reinforced bricks, once flawless and whole, gradually shift to crumbling imitations of their first form. The buildings’ walls are blackened by carbon scoring. This must be where the underworld element comes to settle disputes – or else a site of mutual interest for two warring factions.

Whatever the case, this place has seen a lot of dead people.

Vos stops in front of a battered door. He pauses a moment, like he’s gathering himself, and turns to catch Faie’s attention. There’s a whisper of darkness in his eyes, burning behind the deep brown.

“Let me do the talking,” Quinlan says, and waits for Faie’s nod. Then he pushes the door open, and Faie follows him inside.

The inn is lit by a neon orange glow. Faie takes in the ghastly lamps that have been haphazardly pinned to the walls. Not even one of them is properly aligned with the ceiling or the floor; they send out rays at all angles. It’s only because of the sheer number of them that the space is lit at all.

Faie tries not to cringe at the inefficiency. Vos moves to the back of the room and stops in front of what passes for a desk. A receptionist of some kind, maybe. “I need a room,” Vos says, and the attendant, a tired Human man with sunken eyes and a ratty blond ponytail, stares blankly at him.

“You weren’t s’posed to come back here, Quin,” he says. “Boss isn’t gonna like it. And she’s in a really bad mood today.”

“She’ll get over it,” Quinlan returns. His tone is casual, conversational, but it carries an edge like a blade. “The room, Drol.”

Drol blows out a long breath and hands over an iron key. “When Sora comes for your head, you leave me out of it,” he says. “I’m not getting caught in the middle of this one.”

“Don’t worry,” Vos says. “I don’t think Sora wants me dead that badly.”

Drol doesn’t look convinced. He blinks slowly. “Get outta here,” he mumbles, and flaps a hand at the door. “Please.”

The other travelers scattered around the room barely give them half a glance when they move past them. The corridor they step into is lit much more dimly than the lobby; the lamps here hum a pale, flickering yellow. Quinlan takes them halfway down the hall, then pushes the key into a lock and twists sharply. The mechanisms clatter and grind, and the door creaks open.

“So,” Faie says, once the room is secure. “Sora.”

“She owns the place, I think,” Quinlan says, dropping to a crouch and rifling through a cabinet. He gives a grunt of approval, and procures a box from inside. “Here,” he says, and shoves it toward Faie. “Take that.”

Faie makes no move to obey. “Sora,” he repeats. “Why did Drol think she would be an issue?”

Vos blows out a breath, rocking back on his heels. He folds his hands in front of him. “That’s a really good question,” he says, and wrinkles his nose. “I probably got on her bad side somehow.”

“Now is not the time to be vague, Vos.”

“If I knew, I would tell you,” Quinlan shoots back. His jaw twitches.

He really has no idea. Faie takes a deep breath. “I guess I can’t expect you to remember every detail of every mission you’ve ever been on,” he says, and tries for a smile.

“It’s not that,” Quinlan says. “It’s just that it must have happened before—”

There’s an insistent rap at the door. Vos stops short. Wordlessly, Faie retrieves his pistol from his pack and takes up a defensive position. Quinlan cracks the door open.

It’s a woman, short and stocky. There’s a power to her frame that defies her stature. Her black hair is knotted into a tight bun at the back of her head. She has deep blue facial markings, three diagonal lines on each cheek; they’re stark against her pale green skin.

Her face is twisted into a scowl. “Quin,” she grits out. “I told you I’d let you live as long as you never came back.”

Quinlan hesitates for a second. “Right,” he hedges. Sora’s gaze snaps behind him, to Faie and his blaster pistol. She snorts.

“Put that down,” she says. Faie narrows his eyes; at Vos’s raised hand, he obliges.

“Look,” Vos says. “I need your help.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you almost collapsed a temple on top of me.”

Vos told him there were ancient holy sites in the hills, but he only ever said that all they contained were old dust and bones. “Right,” Quinlan says again. “Sorry about that.”

Sora scoffs. She studies him. “Heard a Republic ship crashed somewhere out there,” she says. “Scavenging crews will be on it as soon as they find it. Do you know anything about that?”

“Nope.”

“Then I guess you’re gonna find a way to explain why you’re traveling with a clone.”

Quinlan stiffens. The hand he clamped onto the doorframe squeezes it so tightly Faie could swear he heard the metal groan. “I’m not with the Republic,” Vos says shortly. “You know that.”

Faie wonders if it’s as much of a guess as it sounds. Maybe he’s banking on Sora not knowing him well enough to pick up on the bluff.

It pays off. “Yeah,” she agrees, a long beat later. “I know that, Quin.”

His groundwork established, Quinlan forges ahead. “Look,” he says. “I’ve been doing a lot of jobs in the Outer Rim. I’ve never seen a clone. I picked him up out in the hills. He said he was a refugee and he needed a way offworld.”

“What were you doing in the hills? More artifact hunting?”

Vos shrugs. “Gotta make a living.”

Sora shakes her head and gives a rueful little laugh. “That work,” she says, “is gonna get you killed one of these days.”

“Because your job’s so safe,” Vos retorts. “You’ve got a nice front going here.”

“Weapons and information aren’t the worst things I could be dealing.”

It’s silent a moment. At last, Sora sighs. “So,” she says. “You need my help.”

“That’s what I said.”

“The whole planet’s looking for him,” Sora says, and nods toward Faie. “You’re putting a target on your head too.”

“He already paid me to get him off the planet,” Vos says. “I owe it to him.”

“He’s a refugee. How the hell did he manage that?”

Quinlan rolls his shoulders in another easy shrug. “Don’t tell me, then,” Sora grumbles, and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “All right. Keep the supply box. I know you’ve already raided it. You can stay the night. I won’t turn you in. But after that, you’re gone. Got it?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Vos says. Sora looks him up and down and blinks skeptically.

“Damn you, Quin,” she says. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you.”

“Thank you, Sora.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says. “And don’t come back.”

Vos waits a minute, then closes the door. Faie slips the blaster pistol back into his pack. When he turns again, Quinlan hasn’t moved.

“Vos?”

Quinlan jolts. “The supply crate,” he says abruptly. “It should have fresh clothes in it. Rations. Maybe a few blasters if we’re lucky.”

“How do you know her?” The question comes unbidden. “What artifacts?”

“Now’s not really the time, Faie.”

“I need to know what you know,” Faie returns evenly, and folds his arms across his chest. He shivers. “Keeping valuable intel to yourself won’t help either of us.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Quinlan repeats. He doesn’t look that alarmed by it. Faie thinks he should at least seem a little unsettled, but his expression never wavers from that placid frown. “I guess it’s something I never really got back.”

Faie stares at him.

“Before the war, my padawan and I were on a mission,” Quinlan says, crouching down to rifle through the box again. His voice is light, easy. “We were dosed with glitteryll. It wiped out my memories. I’ve gotten most of them back since then, one way or another, but there are still gaps. This must be one of them.”

Sounds like hell. “And the artifacts?”

“I used to hunt down ancient artifacts for the Jedi,” Quinlan says. He’s sorting through the items in the crate. A set of smuggler’s clothes, much sturdier than the farmer’s garb Faie is wearing now. A blaster. A single food ration. A knife. “Keeps them out of the wrong hands.”

“You collapsed a temple?”

“Yeah, I guess. Here.” Quinlan tosses the clothes at him. “Go put those on.”

Faie doesn’t move. “I didn’t realize the Jedi had an infiltration division.”

“It’s not a division. Go change before you freeze to death.”

Faie does as he’s told. He’s loath to stow the bodysuit in his pack, but it’s soaked through, and he won’t be able to put his armor back on while he’s here anyway.

The smuggler’s gear is just a simple black shirt, sturdy grey pants, and a dark blue vest. He studies the last piece of clothing for a second, then tugs it on. It might be good for some extra insulation, if nothing else.

“Looking sharp, Faie,” Quinlan says, when Faie rejoins him beside the box. “You should dress up more often.”

“We’ll sleep in shifts,” Faie says briskly. The comment isn’t worth acknowledging; Quinlan Vos is a flirt and can’t help himself, that’s all. “We shouldn’t be here more than a few hours. It would be helpful if we could get our hands on—”

“A map of the city?” Vos presses a button on a handheld projector. The city’s layout hovers between them, gleaming blue. He grins. Faie’s heart jumps. “Done. Spaceport’s right where you thought it was: the other side of the city. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

“Good,” Faie says. “You sleep first. I’ll keep watch.”

“You forget,” Quinlan says. “I have an early warning system.”

“I am not relying on the Force.”

“You’re not trusting the Force,” Quinlan says. “You’re trusting me. I’m trusting the Force.”

Then, however indirectly, so is Faie. He blinks, once. “I’ll keep watch,” he repeats.

“I don’t need to sleep,” Quinlan says. “I’m going to meditate. If something’s coming for us, I’ll feel it.”

“And if you feel it too late?”

There’s a beat of silence. Slowly, Quinlan reaches out and clasps Faie’s wrist. “I won’t,” Vos says. “Get some rest. I’ll watch over you.”

Faie’s throat is tight, suddenly. Quinlan’s eyes are warm and soft and so sincere. For a second, Faie can’t make himself move. “Right,” he manages, too long later. He extracts his wrist from Quinlan’s gentle grip. “I’ll sleep for the first shift. Wake me in two hours.”

“Of course,” Vos says, settling cross-legged at the foot of the small cot. “I’ll do that.”

Dimly, Faie’s aware that the likelihood of Vos actually listening to him this time is lower than it’s ever been. He doesn’t have the energy to argue.

Faie’s asleep the second he closes his eyes.

* * *

“Faie.”

Faie blinks blearily. “It’s been three hours,” Vos says. In the dark, Faie can just barely make out the teasing half-smile. “Sorry. Thought you could use the rest.”

Faie snorts, and pushes himself upright. Typical. “If you’re not planning on sleeping,” he says, “we should get moving.”

“Already packed and ready to go.”

The sun is still far below the horizon when they make their way onto the streets. There are a few early-risers hurrying down the sidewalks; otherwise, it’s mostly deserted.

Well, except for the planetary security officers, of course. Begrudgingly, Faie’s grateful for Vos’s Force-connection. Combined with the path they mapped through the side-streets, it’s enough to avoid immediate detection. It’s a route that will be feasible only until they reach the far side of the city. At that point, the back-alleys become too convoluted to efficiently navigate. Either they risk stepping into the open, or they spend several hours they don’t have navigating a maze.

They make it to the central streets right as the city’s coming to life.

“Lucky,” Quinlan says, a voice for the tension ticking in Faie’s chest. “All right. Same drill. Keep your head down.”

“We should’ve asked your friend for a mask,” Faie says dryly, as if he wouldn’t have stood out just as badly if he was the only person in a crowd with his face concealed.

“She’s not my friend,” Vos grumbles. “Stick close.”

The throng is thicker here, shoulder to shoulder. Quinlan’s hand finds Faie’s and holds tight. Strictly speaking, neither of them actually needs the physical tether to complete the objective. Maybe he should pull away.

Faie holds on.

“Spaceport’s straight ahead,” Vos says lowly. “We just have to make it through the security checkpoint.”

“Great,” Faie says. “You have any ideas?”

“Follow my lead.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” Faie mutters. “Why would I stop now?”

There’s a greater security presence outside the spaceport and more officers, Faie’s sure, scattered among the crowd. The checkpoint has bottlenecked the spaceport’s wide entryways; instead of just scanning their identification and moving through, each and every citizen must surrender their papers and submit to a retinal scan.

Quinlan comes to a slow stop. Faie leans toward him. “There are too many to take out without causing a hell of a lot of collateral damage,” he says. “We might be able to slip through on the right. The access point isn’t completely closed.”

“That’s the idea.” Vos’s voice is tense. He tugs on Faie’s hand, heading them toward the furthest corner of the checkpoint. It seems to be the least secure; the only craft in that section of the shipyard are old farming vessels and heavy freighters: neither is ideal for a quick escape.

There’s a thin trickle of people slowly but surely bypassing the three officers taking papers. As soon as a guard looks down, they dart by. It’s disgustingly lax. Distantly, Faie thinks just seeing it would give Fox a heart attack.

Vos stops so abruptly Faie almost runs into him. He barely has the time to get his footing before Quinlan spins, takes hold of his face, and kisses him. It’s fevered, fast, a rush of lightning adrenaline – and then, just as quickly, it’s over.

Faie stares at him. It takes him a second to find his voice. When he speaks, it’s hoarse. “What the _hell_ —”

“Sorry,” Vos says hastily. He’s already pulling on Faie’s hand again, shouldering toward their objective “There was a security officer. You kiss someone, most people will get uncomfortable and look away. We’re good to go now.”

Of course. Faie swipes at his mouth with his sleeve. “Right,” he says, as clipped as he can manage with the way his head is spinning. “Good cover.”  
Vos doesn’t answer him. His grip on Faie’s hand tightens.

The next being in the wave steps up to the officers. The instant they turn their gazes to the papers, Vos hisses, “ _Now_ ,” and dashes for the opening with Faie on his heels. They make it through the space and duck behind the closest freighter, pressing their backs to its hull and straining to hear.

No one calls out.

Faie’s heart is in his throat. There’s blood pounding in his ears. Shakily, he pushes off the ship and nods toward the smallest freighter in the corner of the yard. It’s not built for a crew of more than four, which means that the two of them should be able to operate it without an issue.

Quinlan is the first onboard, heading for the cockpit and flicking switches to warm up the engines. Faie’s hand hovers over the ramp controls. As soon as the ship roars to life, he seals them inside.

The craft rattles as the guards rush toward it, battering the hull with blasterfire. The freighter is relatively new, built to withstand the harsh climate of a mining world; the blaster bolts will leave carbon scoring, but they’re nowhere near powerful enough to perforate the plating.

The freighter lifts, rises, and rumbles through the atmosphere. The clouds give way to sparkling stars.

“Tell me this thing has a functional hyperdrive,” Faie says, hovering behind the pilot’s chair. Quinlan glances over his shoulder.

“Why? Afraid you’d be stuck with me in the Outer Rim for the rest of your life?”

“We have a war to win,” Faie says dryly. “Does the hyperdrive work or not?”

“Living on the run. Moving from planet to planet. Never staying in one place for too long. Sounds romantic.”

“Vos.”

“You’re no fun.” Despite his words, Vos pulls up a starchart and then overlays it with a readout of their ship’s range. The planets they have the power to reach blink a bright blue. Vos stabs a finger at one. “That’s Republic controlled. We’ll head there. Once we’re in communications range, we can let them know we’re not dead.”

“That’s a two day trip.”

Vos shrugs. “Can’t help travel time,” he says, and hits the controls. They surge into hyperspace. “At least we have a ship.”

Faie slides into the copilot’s seat. The cockpit, like the craft itself, is small; even curled into himself as he is, he’s barely a foot from Quinlan.

The silence aches.

“Hey,” Quinlan says suddenly. “I’m sorry about before.”

Faie folds his arms across his chest and slouches as far back as the chair will let him. It won’t be the most comfortable way to sleep, but it certainly beats rain-soaked rocks. “Like you said,” Faie says, keeping his voice neutral and his gaze straight ahead, “it was good cover.”

“I know. I just feel like I should’ve warned you.”

“We were in a time-sensitive situation,” Faie says. “It’s fine.”

“Still—”

“It’s fine, Quinlan,” Faie says, before he realizes he should probably go back to calling him _general_ at some point. “You flirt with everyone you come across. In a pressured situation, that’s what you went to for a diversion. I understand.”

“I don’t flirt with everyone.”

Faie frowns and strains to remember. “You do,” he says, more haltingly than he means to. “It’s just how you operate.”

“Not everyone,” Quinlan repeats firmly. Something in his voice makes Faie turn. Vos’s eyes are wide and searching. Faie’s breath catches. His heart jumps.

“Just me,” Faie says slowly.

For the first time, Vos looks uncertain of himself. He drops his gaze to his folded hands. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s always been you.”

“…oh.”

Vos takes an unsteady breath. Faie hesitates, then reaches out to brush his fingers across Vos’s hand. Quinlan’s gaze snaps to his. “Oh,” he repeats, and tries for a smile.

Quinlan mirrors it, though his is much more tremulous. “That’s all?” he asks. “Just ‘oh’?”

Carefully, Faie lifts his hands and cradles Quinlan’s face between them. Vos’s eyes flutter closed. His breath shudders. He clasps Faie’s wrists and draws him closer, pressing their foreheads together. For a moment, Faie lets himself breathe – lets himself sink into the peace.

“You should get some rest,” Faie says at last, but makes no move to pull away. “I slept. You didn’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” Quinlan murmurs. “You worry too much.”

Faie pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Rest,” he says. “I’ll watch over you.”

It earns him a smile. “Is that a promise?”

Faie eases forward to press their lips together, a soft and lingering beat, and that, it seems, is the only answer Quinlan needs.

\---


End file.
